


A Spoonful of Sugar (Helps the Medicine Go Down)

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Organ Fondling, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23978716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: When Spinister needs to check the fuel pumps of everyone on the WAP, Krok volunteers to go first. He’s not prepared for the procedure to be sointimate, however, or for Spinister’s capable servos to awaken several new kinks in him.Originally written for the Kinks in the Wires Zine! Now with additional Scavengers shenanigans.
Relationships: Krok/Spinister (Transformers)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 106
Collections: Kinks in the Wires (A free 18+ Transformers weird kinks fanzine)





	A Spoonful of Sugar (Helps the Medicine Go Down)

**Author's Note:**

> I recently had the opportunity to take part in the Kinks in the Wires TF fanzine! This is my piece, plus an additional ~1000 words or so of Scavengers shenanigans because you know how I like my exposition.
> 
> I've been itching to share this thing with everyone for like 2 months now, so I hope it satisfies XD

“Oi, listen! I’ve accepted that I’m going to die _some_ day,” announced Misfire from across the room. “But I don’t want it to be _to_ day.”

He seemed to be under the impression that if he tucked in all of his limbs and folded his wings in tight it would be enough to shield him from Krok’s unimpressed stare. Unfortunately, no matter how hard Misfire wanted to bend the laws of physics, Fulcrum’s lanky technician frame would never be enough to conceal the much bulkier jet. 

Realizing the futility of his efforts, Misfire began inching in the other direction, towards the more generously endowed Grimlock. The dinobot was oblivious to the unrest in the ranks, too busy gnawing on a leg he’d scavenged on their last stop. No one had volunteered to take it from him.

Krok sighed. He drew himself up to full height—a height that was admittedly inadequate by Decepticon standards, but not something he never let show. Mass was authority, but he’d learned to make up for his lack of the former by projecting plenty of the latter. 

“Get back here,” he ordered, pointing at the gap in the lineup where his two wayward mechs had been standing moments ago—before Misfire had dragged the unsuspecting Fulcrum away in some ill-conceived plan to escape his fate. “Now.”

“But I’ve got so much _living_ to do,” Misfire wailed. “I’m playing Spinny for the Shoot Shoot Bang Bang Championship Title this week. Can’t die before I do that; it’s gonna be my legacy!” 

Fulcrum cast Krok a beleaguered expression, one that clearly asked ‘well, what do you want _me_ to do about it?’ In the background, there was the telltale pop of a knee actuator being crushed between Grimlock’s jaws.

Krok crossed his arms. 

“ _Now_ , Misfire. I won’t ask again.” He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. As far as the Decepticon hierarchy was concerned, he was a soft touch, but he’d never believed that rule by fear did anything but encourage your subordinates to stab you in the back later on. Krok wanted respect and admiration, not reluctant, shifty submission. 

There was a time and place for a firm servo, however. Everything from his posture to his tone told Misfire that if he didn’t get back in line in the next few seconds he’d be stuck scrubbing the cargo hold with the universe’s smallest sponge. A prospect which was probably _more_ loathsome to him than the handbook’s suggestion of asking the offender which finger they’d like to lose.

To hear him tell it, Misfire had wriggled out of _that_ particular punishment more than once before—by talking so long and ardently about the particular benefits of each digit that the officer had eventually lost interest and settled for a beating. Of course, there weren’t any of those on Krok’s ship either, so scutwork it was.

There was a tense beat of silence, and then with a defeated slump Misfire slunk back in their direction—an exasperated Fulcrum in tow.

“Baby,” muttered Crankcase, from his position in line next to them. But Krok noted that he wasn’t so cool himself. Crankcase’s nervousness showed in the way he crossed his arms—so tight that his elbow joints creaked under the strain—and in the static that flitted around the gap in his helm. 

“ _Hey!_ You’re one to talk, Mister Static-Cling—” 

Krok raised a servo, swallowing a subvocal growl. He was getting a helmache, and they were only halfway into first shift. 

Thankfully, Misfire chose not to push it. He fell silent with a stubborn pout, and when he turned his optics back to Krok the remorse reflected in them was almost convincing. It would’ve been cute, really, except for the fact that Krok knew better than to fall for that particular deception. Misfire didn’t do guilt. 

“Look, I understand the concern. I do,” Krok said, the picture of a reasonable commander. “But if Spinister says it’s necessary—” he glanced over his shoulder to get Spinister’s confirmation, but abandoned that plan when it became evident that the medic was preoccupied with the flickering overhead light “—then it’s necessary,” he finished firmly. 

“Spinister thinks silencing retro-flies with gunfire is necessary,” Crankcase muttered.

“Besides, you can’t go pulling out a mech’s fuel pump because you feel like it! I’m the one using it mate, and I’m telling you, I feel _fine_.”

“Really,” said Fulcrum flatly. “ _That’s_ the argument you’re going with.” He looked down at his own chassis pointedly. That’s _really_ the hill you’re gonna die on?” 

“Pffft, that was different,” Misfire said, with a wave of his servo. “You were _dead_ , loser”. He squinted at nothing in particular. “I mean, we _thought_ you were dead, which is basically the same thing.”

Fulcrum’s frown pulled down. He was obviously less than reassured. 

“Spinister is our _medic_ ,” interrupted Krok, before a full-blown argument regarding the ethics of in-group organ removal could commence. “That means he has final say on medical _decisions_. If he says he needs to check our fuel pumps, we’re going to let him check our fuel pumps. And unless someone has squirreled away a spare scanner in their habsuite, you’re all going to have to put up with a physical examination.” 

The shifting from the lineup was more apprehensive than guilty, so Krok could safely assume no one had been hoarding spare medical equipment. 

“It’s not so bad,” Fulcrum offered, patting Misfire’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure the brooding jet. “I mean, if the DJD couldn’t kill us, I really doubt that minor surgery will.”

Krok felt a warm little burst of pride. Coward he might be, but Fulcrum had been showing an admirable amount of grit lately. Maybe later they could have an impromptu little ceremony in recognition of his newfound discipline. It was important to reward your mecha when they showed growth. He also knew that Misfire had been looking for an excuse to dole out the tiny trickle of high-grade they’d been hoarding, and Primus knew they needed the morale boost. 

“Spinister is a professional,” Krok added, trying to ignore the fact that their professional was now prodding at the light with the end of his rifle to determine whether or not it presented an immediate threat. “I know this isn’t ideal, but we can’t afford to drift around with defective fuel pumps for another couple of months in the hopes that the universe will deliver the right equipment to our airlock.” 

Ultimately, the condition of his crew reflected on him. It was his responsibility to keep them functional and fed, and letting them run around with corroding fuel pumps was antithesis to that mandate. 

Krok looked at the three of them—Misfire still sulking, Fulcrum trying vainly to extricate himself from the grip the jet had around his waist, Crankcase frowning with more aplomb than usual—and felt a wave of sympathy. They radiated nervous energy, and he got it, he did. There was a reason Decepticon medics knocked their patients out when they could; feelings of vulnerability tended to trigger _strong_ reactions in mecha who’d spent most of their functioning in some state of jeopardy. Personally, Krok was more comfortable knowing that if he had to endure that feeling, he wouldn’t remember it. But they didn’t have that luxury. 

“I’ll go first,” he relented. If nothing else, he could at least set an example. 

A soft hiss filled the room as his crew vented collectively in relief. 

“I’ll go first,” he repeated firmly, in part to shake off his own apprehension, “And then you’ll all go, and by tonight we’ll have put this behind us.” He uncrossed his arms. “And _maybe_ , when we’ve gotten the all-clear from Spin, we can break out the engex to celebrate.” 

Even Crankcase perked a little at that. 

Satisfied that there wouldn’t be any more protest, Krok turned back to Spinister. The light had passed inspection, and he’d moved on to staring at a patch on the wall—as though by focusing hard enough, he could unravel its mysteries.

“You ready, Spin?” he asked. Spinister didn’t respond, though his servo tightened on his rifle. “Spinister,” Krok said, a little louder—a little _too_ loud, maybe. 

Spinister’s helm shot up, followed by the rifle. He scanned the room, consternated by the lack of clear targets. “What did you need me to shoot?” he asked. 

Krok patted him on the arm reassuringly. “No shooting. I need you to prep for surgery, though. I’m going first.”

Spinister’s expression cleared. The gun dropped limpy back to his side. 

“Oh. Yeah, I can do that.”

Spinister headed off in the direction of medbay, and Krok beckoned to his crew. They fell in line with minimal fuss—only a few snarls and shoves, and one ‘watch the _optic_ ’ arising in his wake. After a few minutes, the sound of a dinobot stomping in the distance suggested that Grimlock had grown bored of his chew toy and begun trailing after them.

“How long will it take?” Krok asked, as their destination loomed. 

Spinister shrugged. He stepped up to the access panel, and began typing in the long string of numbers that would let them in. Krok had given up on memorizing the combination, opting to just send himself a memo instead. 

“Not long.”

“Could you give me an estimate?” Krok was wondering whether or not he should send everyone off to complete the day’s tasks, rather than leave them to hover like a swarm of nano-gnats. 

Spinister thought about it, finger poised over the access panel. 

“Two? Maybe three.”

Krok decided to abandon the line of questioning. He looked over his shoulder, and gave a short nod to the mecha clustered behind him. 

“Alright, you can stay here and wait your turns.” Presumably, it would go smoother if they could see for themselves when he emerged unharmed and (relatively) unscarred. 

When Krok followed Spinister into the medbay, however—stopping just inside the doorway—he quickly realized that he should’ve been more specific about where ‘here’ was. There was a muffled ‘ack!’ as Fulcrum marched directly into his back, and he had to brace himself to keep from stumbling. 

Krok pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge. The implication had been that they would wait _outside_. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, turning around to face his entourage. 

“We just want to make sure that you’re okay,” hedged Fulcrum. “Um, sir.”

“Yeah, especially since it’s _my_ turn next.”

Crankcase grunted an affirmation. None of them backed away. 

Krok knew that he should make them leave. This wasn’t proper procedure, medical or otherwise. But a part of him stirred at their concern.

“Fine,” he said, and then pointed at the far corner of the medbay. It would be cozy, but it would accomodate all of them. “But you wait over there.” 

A predictable scuffle ignited over who got to sit in the sole available chair, but Krok turned away before a winner could present themself. He looked to Spinister, who gestured at the medbay berth with the servo not clutching his rifle. 

Krok leveraged himself up, and tried to ignore the way his pedes barely scraped the floor. Spinister, in an uncharacteristic act of foresight, moved to pull the tarp they’d hung as a makeshift curtain. Before it obscured his line of sight, Krok caught a glimpse of Misfire waving enthusiastically from where he’d claimed the chair, and a hesitant thumbs up from Fulcrum. Crankcase nodded stiffly at him, and then it was just Spinister left to accompany him in the small space.

Krok had been so concerned with keeping everyone on-task that he hadn’t found the opportunity to worry about himself, but now—as Spinister rifled through a nearby cabinet—he found himself reaching for his communicator. Click. Click. Click click click. The repetition kept the nervous tide at bay. He pinged his crew for their locations and they dutifully responded, even though he could hear three of them shuffling behind the curtain, and the fourth stood before him. 

He looked up and almost lost his balance, seated on the edge of the berth as he was. Spinister was unnervingly quiet for a mech his size, and he’d gotten close enough that Krok could count the pocks in his plating. He covered his surprise with a cough, scooting back so that he wasn’t so precariously perched, even if it meant he lost his contact with the ground. It wouldn’t do to tip into the arms of his medic mid-procedure. Though he could attest that they were a very sturdy pair of arms. 

“Ready?” asked Spinister. He’d put the gun down, finally.

Krok took a deep vent. 

“Ready.”

Spinister—who favoured the direct approach—didn’t give him any time to dwell on his decision, reaching for the side panel that hid his medical access port. There wasn’t anything untoward about the move, but Krok had a few less _professional_ memories available for cross-reference, and had to deny the interested ping sent by his processor. 

_Medical procedure_ , he reminded it, and the feeling reluctantly settled.

Connection was still a little thrill—a crackle of static along circuitry that didn’t see enough use. Spinister’s presence, solid and unyielding, prodded experimentally at his firewalls. It was a courtesy, and one Krok appreciated. Spinister had the same bypass codes all medics did, but it was generally considered polite to request access to someone else's' processor. When it came to hardline, the divide between intimate and invasive was razor-thin.

Of course, some mecha got off on that. 

Krok granted him secondary access—enough for Spinister to do what he needed to do, but not so deep that he’d be projecting every stray thought at him. Distracting Spinister was a gamble under normal circumstances, doubly so during surgery.

He needn’t have worried; at the moment, Spinister was nothing short of stark efficiency. He quickly found the input for Krok’s pain receptors, and disabled them with a command. Then, he gently lifted one of Krok’s legs to waist height—

—before abruptly dropping it. The leg slammed back into the side of the berth with alarming speed. But while Krok felt the impact, he felt none of the blunt pain that would have normally radiated from the collision. 

Spinister peered down at him, gauging his reaction.

“Good?”

“Good,” confirmed Krok, who was glad that his mask made it easy to keep a straight face. He could hear snickering from behind the curtain, and then a dull clang and muffled ‘oof’ as someone received an elbow to the midsection.

Spinister nodded, and then triggered the release for Krok’s chassis. The whirr of a minor transformation sequence had rarely sounded so ominous. Even expecting it, he couldn’t help but tense as his armour folded away, leaving his internals exposed to the cool air. Under normal circumstances, he would have been unconscious by now. After all, a comatose ‘Con was a manageable one, and their medics were short on both patience and bedside manner. 

Krok resisted the instinctive urge to turn away, focusing instead on the shape of the communicator clenched in his servo. Spinister was safe. 

“Walk me through it,” he said. 

Spinister was a mech of few words, something Krok would have appreciated under ordinary circumstances. The silence was usually a welcome break from the low grade bickering that filled the WAP. But Krok was also a strategist; the more information at his disposal, the easier it would be to control the situation. Click, click, click. Another round of location pings from his restless, but well-conditioned crew. 

“Okay,” said Spinister. He paused, and the silence stretched on a moment too long.

“You can start at the beginning,” Krok suggested, knowing that was usually easier than trying to find the abandoned thread.

“Okay,” Spinister said again. “So that batch of fuel we found on Eter-6 was pretty bad.”

Krok nodded, pushing down the nausea that rose with the reminder. Bad was understating it. The fuel had been downright rotten, fermented in the radioactive rays of Eter’s sun. Not even Misfire had been able to filter it properly, but they’d been desperate enough to give it a chance, and had spent the rest of the night expelling it from their systems.

“We purged most of it, so that was good. Fuel tanks are strong, so they should be okay. No one’s woken up in a pool of their own energon, at least.” 

Thank Primus for small mercies. 

“But that wasn’t the only bad fuel we’ve drank,” Spinister continued. “We’ve drank a lot.” 

Krok tried not to wince. He’d venture that _most_ of the fuel they consumed was subpar; Misfire did what he could, but recycled energon was never going to be as good as fresh, and that didn’t account for the questionable condition they found the majority of their sources in. Plus, bad fuel was gritty—full of all kinds of particulate. It was a bit like chucking rocks into a turbine. 

“Processing the bad stuff is hard on your fuel pump,” Spinister continued. “And since we’re missing a scanner, I haven’t checked ours for a while. There’s probably all kinds of…” he paused, searching for the right term, “gunk on them.” 

“Gunk.”

Spinster nodded. 

“From the holes.”

“...Holes?” Krok asked, tamping down on the train of thought that wondered whether Spinister could see the _holes_ in his own exposed pump. 

“Yeah, you know. The leaks.” 

Great. He was _leaky_.

“That going to kill any of us?” asked Krok, already running calculations. 

“Probably not,” Spinister shrugged. “Still, needs fixing.”

Krok was dissuaded from asking anything else by the sudden appearance of Spinister's servos _inside_ of him. He jolted in surprise, gripping the edge of the berth as Spinister began to feel around the main line that rose from the top of his pump. 

“Little warning next time,” he croaked, trying to make sense of the conflicting signals. 

On one servo, something foreign was rummaging around his internals, which had prompted a ’danger!’ message to light up in neon. On the other, his pain sensors had been thoroughly disarmed, so there was less incentive to reject the intrusion outright. Spinister wasn’t _hurting_ him, and as unnatural as the sensation was, it left Krok to focus on the other sensations—like the warmth of Spinister’s fingers where they brushed so gently along the connecting seam and then upwards, following the line deeper into his chassis.

Spinister grunted an apology, but he was clearly preoccupied with his examination. 

“Hrm. Should be enough.”

Enough _what_? 

Before Krok could ask, Spinister was gently lifting his fuel pump from its nest of coiled tubes and out into the open. His spark lurched a little at that—from nerves, and from some other, unidentifiable feeling. 

“Enough give,” Spinister said, as though he’d asked anyway. “Otherwise I would’ve had to set up a bypass, and this would’ve gotten a lot more complicated.” 

“Oh,” Krok said, his gaze fixed on the careful way Spinister cradled the sensitive organ. “Okay, that’s—good”. He felt strangely hot, though the air of the medbay was as chilly as ever, and from the way his pump was pounding, he was surprised it wasn’t audible. Or maybe it was. Krok couldn’t hear much beyond the whoosh of fuel in his audials. 

“You have a nice fuel pump,” Spinister said, and that didn’t help whatever it was that was going on with his systems. 

If he hadn’t known better, Krok would’ve chalked the weird, tight feeling up to _arousal_. But that couldn’t be it. This wasn’t anything close to ‘facing. 

“Thanks, Spin,” Krok managed, as Spinister turned the pump around to continue scrutinizing it. The tingling in his core had begun to spread to his extremities, and he was finding it hard to brush it off as a manifestation of his nerves. The last time he’d felt like this, someone had spent the better part of an hour with their glossa in his cable dock.

“Shaped kind of funny though.”

 _Funny_. The familiar phrasing shook Krok out of his wary introspection. He eyed the rifle, propped up in the corner of the examination room.

“...That gonna be a problem?”

“Nah,” said Spinister, after a moment’s consideration. “Like I said. S’nice.”

Something softer unfurled in his spark at that, fluttering and light. It was silly, maybe, but Krok had relegated himself to the realm of the hopelessly unattractive when he’d relinquished his alt-mode. He hadn’t cared at the time—and still didn’t, not really—but as much as it would have rattled his younger self’s stringent beliefs, it was… it was nice to know that there was something about him that Spinister found appealing. 

“Gonna check for any structural weaknesses,” Spinister informed him. 

Krok was grateful for the warning, vague as it was. It was all that kept him from gasping as Spinister applied careful pressure to his fuel pump. He still twitched, his fingers trembling against the berth as a sliver of heat lanced his spark. He’d expected the procedure to be unpleasant and invasive; he hadn’t anticipated _this_.

“Have you noticed any pain or tenderness?” Spinister asked as he palpated the area, evidently unaware of the effect his ministrations were having. 

“No,” said Krok, in a strangled voice. “Nope. Everything’s been normal. Same as usu— _ah_.” It wasn’t a lie; his fuel pump hadn’t been giving him any trouble until Spinister had laid his capable servos on it.

“Hm, you sure? You don’t sound right.” A moment’s pause. “Comfortable,” Spinister amended.

“I’m— fine.” 

He wasn’t. He knew that it showed in his posture—ramrod straight, like he’d been mounted on a flagpole—and in the stiff set to his shoulders. It didn’t help that they were still connected. Spinister was monitoring his vitals in the background, and that meant he could see for himself how quickly Krok’s internal temperature had risen—how his circuit dampeners were failing to regulate the excess charge, leaving the remainder to skitter across his circuits. 

Krok could only hope that Spinister would make the wrong assumptions. Whatever those were.

“How bad is it?” Krok asked, trying to distract himself from his mortifying arousal—because it _was_ arousal, no matter how he tried to spin it. 

Spinister lifted the fuel pump to show him, and the world _shifted_ as the movement tugged on his main fuel line. The stretch was _wrong_ , according to his readouts, but it also generated a wave of raw, electrifying pleasure—one that almost bowled him over with its intensity. 

“Hrk,” said Krok.

“See? Not too bad,” Spinister told him. “The crusty parts show me where the older leaks are. Gonna clean it up so your self-repair can take care of them. Nothing big enough to need a patch.”

Krok didn’t see much of anything. He too was busy trying to remain upright as his frame did its best to compensate for the lightheadedness brought on by extending its primary energon line. In a moment, the dizziness had passed, and his arousal simmered even brighter in its absence. 

He tried to focus on the spots that Spinister had pointed out, but was mostly distracted by the careful manner with which the medic handled the fragile organ. His spark throbbed, quick and dirty. 

“And why—why did I need to be awake for that again?” Krok asked. Decepticon commanders were strong in the face of torture, no matter how tender. They didn’t enjoy having their most vulnerable parts attended to by their subordinates. They didn’t appreciate the way said subordinates dwarfed them. And they didn’t need to be protected, or taken care of. 

“Easier to find the new leaks when your pump isn’t on standby,” Spinister said. “Anyway, this might feel a little weird.” He brandished a brush as he spoke. 

Krok had just enough time to brace himself for the sensation of bristles making contact with his fuel pump—oversensitized from its exposure to a whole host of new stimuli. His leg jerked involuntarily, and he followed through with the motion—jamming it into the back of the berth in an attempt to keep quiet. A groan swelled in the back of his intake, but he refused to let it escape, swallowing thickly and forcing the noise back down. 

If he’d thought Spinister’s servos were bad, this was worse. The bristles were simultaneously stiff and soft, rasping against his fuel pump in a maddening rhythm that sent shocks of pleasure cascading across his sensornet. He shuddered on every forward stroke, and clenched the edge of the berth on the return. His fuel pump pulsed erratically, assailed by the relentless tide. 

Spinister was brutally efficient, giving Krok no time to rest before moving onto the next patch. The cool kiss of the solvent that he dipped periodically into did little to soothe the heat bubbling up from Krok’s core. If Spinster noticed his fans ratcheting up another notch—or the suddenly laboured nature of his venting—he made no acknowledgement. 

For some reason that infuriated Krok, even though he knew that he should be proud of Spinister’s single-minded focus, and grateful for his professionalism. This wasn’t… they were on-duty. 

When Spinister set the brush aside, Krok sagged with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Compared to the intense onslaught of the brush, the soft cloth that Spinister used to wipe away the remaining debris was nothing but a teasing whisper across his internals. 

“Yeah, okay. I think we’re good here,” Spinister said. He settled the pump back into Krok’s chest cavity, and made as if to draw away. 

Before he could think about it, Krok had reached out to grasp Spinister firmly around the wrist. 

The medic stiled, meeting Krok’s fervent gaze with mild confusion. 

“Spin,” Krok rasped. His fans spun incriminatingly in the space between them, but otherwise it was quiet. Quiet enough to catch the ensuing commentary from behind the curtain. 

“Oh god, he’s begging him for mercy.”

“Begging him for _something_ , all right.”

Krok had almost forgotten about their audience, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d deal with it later. 

Spinister tilted his helm, but otherwise didn’t make any move towards or away from him. Krok finally just sent a packet across their connection, one that outlined in detail all of the areas of his frame where his charge was exceeding normal levels. The data transfer was accompanied by a little crackle of electricity, which licked teasingly at their connection.

“Oh, yeah. You want me to take care of that?” 

Krok’s grip tightened on Spinister’s wrist. He gave a quick, jerky nod. 

This was where another ‘Con might take the opportunity to deride or mock him for his weakness. But this was Spinister, who’d been with him from the start of this misadventure, and who listened so intently when he spoke about their future, and who’d never failed to look out for Krok or their crew. 

Spinister’s optics glowed a little brighter, and Krok briefly lost himself in the warmth of them. 

“Okay.”

When both servos returned to his fuel pump, he did his best to keep his low groan for Spinister’s audials only. And for the next minute, he resolved to forget what Decepticon commanders were and weren’t supposed to do, and let his medic take care of him.

Spinister had clearly been paying more attention than he’d let on. He sought out sensitive seams with pinpoint accuracy, and applied just the right amount of pressure—firm and all-encompassing—to the piece of Krok he held. The massage was anything but clinical, and a thin whine slipped through Krok’s dentae as Spinister palpated the organ with a focus usually reserved for surgery. Fingers swept across the indented section at the front of the pump, and then pressed in, rubbing firmly at the centre until Krok’s fans clattered.

Each caress left a trail of heat in its wake, and Krok blazed from within. It would be so _easy_ for Spinister to crush the pump between his fingers—to snuff him out with a well-timed blow—and the fire inside him was fed by the knowledge that he wouldn’t. The danger was juxtaposed against some deep, trembling need that Krok barely understood. 

He was horrifyingly exposed, but he’d never felt safer. 

That feeling morphed into a furious embarrassment as Krok’s frame interpreted the sense of security as a queue to expose him further. There was a soft hiss as the seal on his spark casing released, the plates loosening enough for a thin bar of light to escape and reflect off of Spinister’s chassis. 

To his credit, Spinister wasn’t fazed. He dragged a thumb down the crack in the casing, flirting with the wispy edges of Krok’s corona where it attempted to seep out. _Oh_.

“Go ahead,” said Spinister, sweeping along the line again, and drawing an ecstatic spasm from the spark below. “I’ve got you.”

It was too much. Krok made a noise, soft and staticky, and then the pleasure swept over him in a cascade of sparking wires and electric bliss. His spark swelled, hot and heavy, until it burst with the fervid weight of it. 

Shivering violently in the throes of his overload, he barely registered Spinister’s solid mass propping him up as the final, rattling wave ferried him to unconsciousness. 

When Krok came to, the first thing he noticed was that Spinister was still supporting him. The second thing he noticed was the _ache_. It was the kind of full-frame ache that followed a particularly processor-blowing overload, and the scent of ozone that lingered in the air was confirmation enough. He’d be surprised if he hadn’t blown a capacitor or five. 

The third thing was that though his frame still radiated heat—metal pinging intermittently as the plating settled—there was something blissfully cool running through his lines, soothing the throb in his fuel pump. Krok looked down to see Spinister disconnecting a tube from somewhere inside his chassis.

“Should flush out any impurities lingering in your lines,” Spinister explained. Then he leaned in, and gently bumped his forehead against Krok’s. “Now you’re done.”

Krok laughed, softly and off-kilter

“Guess I really didn’t have anything to worry about.” 

“Naw. Not with me.”

Krok hooked his fingers under Spinister’s chin, bringing their masks together in a brief nuzzle. 

“Alright, big guy. You’ve got other patients.”

Provided that everything went smoothly with the others—and no _other_ life-threatening conditions manifested themselves—he’d see about popping by later to return the favour. Until then, he’d carry the warmth blooming under his chassis with him for the rest of the shift. 

Krok’s content was so absolute that he couldn’t even bring himself to be disgruntled as an eager voice rang out from behind the curtain. 

“Oi! Me next!”

Krok snorted a laugh. He basked in the reminder that at the end of the day, he was his crews’ as much as they were his. 

And maybe Spinister owned a little more of him than most. 

But that was okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this piece for the zine was an absolute delight, as was seeing everything come together for publishing. Everyone worked really hard to produce a heap of amazing content, so if you're itching for more weird robot erotica... 
> 
> [*slides you the full zine*](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/kitw/works/23966062)
> 
> Also! [Writing song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSMY-dmvQlg).


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